The following story has themes of non-consent sex, humiliation, abuse and other dark themes. If such content offends you, please do not read. This is an erotic FICTION story not meant as any sort of gender, political or societal protest. This is purely for entertainment and never meant to happen in reality. If you have issues with such kinks, please do not read.
"Melissa, it's fucking hot," I mutter to myself and wipe the sweat from my brow. Even with the sunhat I'm wearing, the sun still seems to not just get in my eyes, but burn every inch of exposed skin. If I didn't enjoy gardening, I wouldn't be out here, on my hands and knees weeding.
Deciding it's time to take a break, I rest on my knees while sitting on my butt. I reach over and get one of my bottles of water, drinking almost half of it in one go. Whenever I work outside in my garden, I always take at least a half-dozen bottles of water with me. It's so easy to get dehydrated when you work outside.
Looking around, I must say I am proud of my yard. It's hard work to make it look special as I have. It takes a lot of planning, discipline and creativity. For I have a wraparound garden, which goes all the way around the house, from front yard to the back yard. Well, sort of. Each garden bed is about six feet long, then there's two feet of space before it starts again so you can get though.
On purpose I have a color scheme with the plants. As you enter via the driveway, the color of the plants changes from red, to light red, to pink and so on. It goes on the entire length of the garden beds, like it is a huge rainbow.
It's really very beautiful, but it takes a lot of work. Tons of weeding. Tons of watering. Tons of checking and adding what you need to when the plants look sick.
For a moment I frown as I look out at the street in front of my house. One thing I dislike about my yard is that there are three large pine trees directly in front. They act sort of like the separator between my yard and the ditch/sidewalk. The problem is the branches stretch out, so you really can't see my gardens from the street or sidewalk. Well, you could, but you have to really be looking.
To my side, I hear my cell chime, meaning I got a text. Leaning over, I look down at the lit up screen. At the moment I have gloves on, so I can't pick up my phone, especially as dirt covers my gloves. So I look to see who just texted me.
It's my friend Alexis. Immediately at seeing this, I lean back and take another sip of my water. At the moment I don't want to read whatever she sent. I know it isn't an emergency as she would have called instead.
Alexis is a very good friend, but she can be very annoying. And in any case, I know why she's texting. I was supposed to go on a date last night, my first date in close to six months, but it fell through. The guy texted saying he couldn't make it for some generic reason, and that he'll reach out later to set something else up. That's code for, "Yeah, no longer interested." Alexis is reaching out because she knows how much I was looking forward to that date.
Shaking my head a little, I feel frustration, but aimed at myself. A couple of days ago Alexis and I were sharing a bottle of wine, when I admitted how I was really looking forward to the date, mainly because it's been ages since I've had sex. It's been about a year since I've had. Or maybe a year and a half. The last time I had sex was with that jackass-limp dick-cheating-fucker-loser-asshole or otherwise as most know him, my ex-husband. And even then, it wasn't really sex as he came after just a few seconds. One of the many reasons I divorced his cheating ass.
I should have never told Alexis that, even if it is true. Oh, how I would love to have sex. Good, old fashioned sex. The type that makes you feel content and in the clouds after.
But what did I expect? Dating at my age is sort of like playing poker and never getting any face cards. I'm a 42 year old woman after all. The men that want to date me tend to be the men I want to stay away from. The type that you can easily find their mugshot online.
Sure, if I went to a bar I bet I could find someone, but those aren't the type of men I want to have sex with. That wouldn't be sex, but work. And in the end, I know it wouldn't be fun, let alone make me feel content.
My date was to be with a guy that I could see myself physically with. He was in good shape, looked well-groomed and seemed, well, normal. Not a beer belly man that is drowning in his own poor self-esteem, wanting you to act like his mother so he can get off. Then starts crying right after.
And boy, are there a lot of guys like that out in the world. Needy, weird men that act as if they are entitled to whatever from you, just because you are a woman. Like being my age will make me just bow down and do whatever. I'll always remember the loser at the grocery store who started to hit on me, but then actually said, "If you could act more like my mom, I sure would like that." And that was after like only 4 sentences out of his mouth.
I'm not picky, I really am not. I just don't want another loser like I had for twenty years. Where you have to prop them up all the time, especially sexually. My ex would expect me to comment about how big his manhood each time we had sex, like if it mattered. If I didn't, he would whine about it for days after.
I want a guy that doesn't care about his dick size, because he knows what he has is more than enough. Where he could conquer me with his confidence. That sure, he may need a helping hand from time to time, but he wants a partner and not his mother.
And if I'm being completely honest, I think I deserve a better class of guy, just on how good I look. I work hard to keep my body looking good. Sure, I'm older, but I eat healthy, work out when I can and keep myself groomed. I put a lot of work into my body, and expect a lover to do the same for me. Where I don't have to beg them to take a shower.
When I was talking to Alexis the other day about wanting sex, she pointed out how whenever I go out, I do normally get hit on, but she doesn't seem to understand. I admit, I do get hit on, and it's not because I'm wearing something sexy, but because of my bust size. I've always been a bit top heavy, but ever since I hit 40, my tits decided they should be where my extra weight goes. I think I may be the first woman I know that has gone on a diet not to take pounds off her hips, but from her tits. Everything else looks nice and proportionate, except for those two orbs right in front.
Feeling a bit forlorn, I look beyond the trees in my yard to notice one of my neighbors. I watch as he moves his lawnmower towards the back of his house, having just mowed the front. A smile come son my face as I look at him, as he would be the perfect guy for me. The guy is a nice guy, a loving husband and a caring father. The sort of guy you would expect in this sort of neighborhood. Oh, how I would let him ravage me, if only he wasn't married.
